To the neophyte cook, is there any object more suspect, more chock-full of dangers unknown, than a thick, raw chicken breast?

An experienced chef doesn't worry about chicken. But to me, on a particular evening last summer, as a neophyte cook fresh off my first rice cooker and utterly lacking in stovetop experience, two thick, raw chicken breasts represented nothing so much as a gamble on mine and my boyfriend's lives. A person less inclined to panic would consult Google. I just slathered the things with butter, cranked up the gas, and tossed 'em on the stove.

Sputter! Hiss! The air was full of molten butter spitlets, and in seconds the outer skins of the damned breasts were charred. I thought: My god, are they cooked already? I waded into the butter-crazy danger zone around the stove, sliced open one of the breasts -- using a knife which immediately entered quarantine in the sink, because you can never be too careful; you don't want to re-use one of these soiled things, because even a successfully burnt bird could thereby be retainted with dread salmonella -- and, no, the insides were completely raw. And there was a lot of inside to these breasts. They were more than three inches thick. It was clear that long before the inner breasts were safe to eat, the outsides would be inedible and carbonized.

I did what any reasonable young adult would do in that situation. I called mommy.

"Mum!" I said. "I'm in trouble!" I explained my predicament.

"Keep

the things wet!" she said. "Just -- get some liquid on them! And turn

down the heat!"

I looked around. There was skim milk. That

wouldn't work. There was a tiny bit of olive oil. I used it, then it was

gone, evaporated in seconds.

"The pan's too hot," I said. "It

can't hold the liquid."

"You'll need to douse it," she said.

"Don't you have anything?"

Now, at that time one of my roommates

had befriended a coked-out young trustafarian with a tendency to throw

over-elaborate parties. This trustafarian had recently hosted some kind

of soiree in Miami, for which she, in her chemical optimism, had wildly

overestimated the necessary amount of booze. In the bleary

morning-after, she'd bequeathed to my roommate not a bottle, but a case

of Jack Daniels, which had spent several weeks languishing in the

closet as we figured out what to do with it.

I sprinted to this

closet. I opened a bottle of Jack. The chicken spat away in the kitchen.

I dashed into the danger zone and spilled a bit of booze on the gas

burner. The kitchen erupted in flame. I knew I was going to die.

But

I didn't. The flames vanished in a great and terrifying woosh, and then

there was only the kitchen, the chicken, and a steady drizzle of Jack

Daniels, the first several fluid ounces of which evaporated on contact

with the pan, but which ultimately managed to form a pool. The pan

cooled down.

"Thank god," said mum. "I thought you were a goner."

"It

was close," I said.

"Now listen," she said, and proceeded to

explain how I might salvage the meal: Keep the breasts wet, keep 'em

cooking on a low flame, and keep checking 'em for done-ness. Which I

did.

So that I didn't rely completely on booze, I added, in

installments, a half a stick of butter to the pan, along with a few

generous dollops of Sriracha sauce. When the chicken was done, I served

it with some mashed potatoes dressed with arugula, which had previously

been sauteed in garlic. It was all awesome, and the chicken especially

-- this is, to my knowledge, the one and only earthly context in which